Graduating Divergence
by Jebus Creiss
Summary: As Xander calmly detailed his dealings with a certain zombie gang some months past, a panicky Slayer and her undead/dying ex-boyfriend wondered what the hell had brought this on. Then Xander explained why. Buffy/Angel fic, set during Graduation Day Pt.2
1. Part I

**Disclaimer:** Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, whole other bunch of people not me.

**Rating: T** (moderate language)

**Number:** 1/3 (at least, perhaps up to 7)

**Summary:** As Xander calmly detailed his dealings with a certain zombie gang some months past, a panicky Slayer and her undead/dying ex-boyfriend wondered what the hell had brought this on. Then Xander explained why.

**A/N:** As the title indicates, this story is one of several ideas floating around in my head in which events fly off at a tangent, usually removing one or more characters from their destinies. Common as dirt? why _yes_. The basic premise here is to use atypical divergence points, rather than the oft-abused YAHF or FWP (Fun With Portals) or what-have-you. Feel free to make with the suggestions, because I'm not one to turn down free inspiration.  
In this case, the timeline begins as canon during Season 3's Graduation Day - Part Two. Some few lines are from the episode, but I've kept it to a bare minimum.

**Pairings:** Buffy/Angel (Willow/Oz)

**Feedback:** very much appreciated!

* * *

**Tangent Stage Left: Graduating Divergence, Part I**

—**ox-oxo-xo—**

The mansion's front entrance swung open, disgorging a sombre short redhead and a sombre (one might assume, at least) shorter blond to the late-night air. They moved quietly some little way from the door, the mood funereal as their blonde friend, they assumed, set about breaking the bad news to her dying ex-boyfriend.

Which she was, of course. If not precisely the bad news they were assuming.

(Try not to blame them. They just had some rather nice sex followed by a round of heartbreaking drama with a touch of embarrassment thrown in for kicks – they weren't exactly in the best of shape for in-depth, objective character analysis, even if one of said characters wasn't, for lack of a better phrase, _dying_…)

Silence fell, for a moment. Then it was broken by the arrhythmic rumbling of a distinctly unhealthy car engine, which shut off from the street. A door opening and shutting, then purposeful footsteps followed. Their source slowed to a halt as he regarded the glum pair.

Xander leapt to the logical conclusion. "Buffy's back?"

"Uh-huh," Willow confirmed. "Just a minute ago."

The brunet's visage tightened subtly as the next logical conclusion was reached. "Only one Faith short, huh? Did she find her?"

"Yeah," Oz replied, features carefully blank.

Xander grimaced unhappily. Then he straightened, adjusting the rucksack he'd taken with him out of the 'new' car on his shoulder. "Then there's no time to lose. Buffy told you to keep looking for another cure?"

"Uh, yeah?" Willow said. "Well, we told her, but—"

"Don't bother," Xander cut her off, stepping round the pair and heading for the mansion's entrance. "This is gonna be sorted one way or another pretty quickly now, I'm thinkin'. I bet Giles could use the extra eyes, if…" he went through the door, pausing a few steps in as he realised Willow and Oz were right behind him. He huffed with resignation. "…you're not just gonna follow me in, anyway."

And with that he started hurrying through the mansion, electing to ignore the couple's softly spoken protests and queries regarding where he'd gone earlier – which cut off anyway as the words of a conversation in the next room filtered in through Angel's bedroom door.

"_It'll save you._" Female, attempting to project calm.

"_It'll kill you._" Male, not even trying to sound like its owner wasn't being drowned in horror.

"_Maybe not._" Xander rolled his eyes and opened the door, ignoring Willow and Oz as their jaws slackened with realisation and dawning horror to match Angel's. Buffy's voice became clearer with the opened door. "Not if you don't take it all."

"Yep," Xander drawled, watching the absorbed Slayer jump and the sweat-drenched Angel stiffen at the unexpected interruption, "sometimes it just plain sucks being right." He strode over to the unsteady vampire. "Get back into bed, Dead Man Slumping. We might as well be comfortable while we do this."

"What are you doing, Xander?" Buffy reflexively tightened her grip on Angel, suppressed panic beginning to bloom. She quickly scrabbled to hide it under indignation. "What's it take to get a little privacy round—" she spluttered.

"So, what?" the newcomer snapped. "You can make him drain you dry? Probably kill you while he's at it? What the hell kind of—" He suddenly strangled to a halt, sucking in a deep, calming breath through gritted teeth. The human portion of his audience blinked with surprise, a calm demeanour not being something commonly associated with a Xander Harris who was clearly at the end of his tether; this gave Xander the handful of seconds needed to reorient their conversation in the required direction. "Look, Buffy – there _are_ other options, ways to give us more time… Just for instance, you could give him, like, a _pint_ of your blood or something first? Slow the poison up a bit, maybe?"

The expression on Buffy and Willow's faces, just for that moment, was _priceless_.

Of course, under the ostensible circumstances a merry old round of 'yell at the smartass' should have been the likely consequence. It was Willow who shouted, "And you point this out _now_?"

This time, though, he had the perfect excuse!

"Yup. 'Cause hopefully, it's not gonna matter anyway. With a little luck here, we can stop the poison in its tracks." He quickly stole another breath before his four companions could explode, and let his mien slide from pride at being the 'man with a plan', to something more suited to a hanging judge…or someone holding a shovel, at least. "It's one hell of a cure, though. Which means, Angel," Xander carefully stressed the vampire's preferred moniker, "that you need to answer me a question first. An honest answer. And you have to _think_ about it."

The teen stepped into Angel's personal space, demanding his attention. "Can you do that? To maybe save your life?"

The ensouled vampire thought about this, or at least attempted to. The poison and its attendant fever made things more than a little difficult in that regard, something which did not endear Xander's request to him. But, Angel eventually decided, he might as well play along – if for no other reason than to stave off Buffy's attempts to throw her life away to restore his undead form. And the boy did seem abnormally serious. Maybe he had something up his sleeve here…

"All right," he croaked.

Xander nodded. "Then here it is…"

He leaned in closer, staring into the vampire's eyes from six inches away. At Angel's side, Buffy blatantly leaned in as well to hear the question.

"You're wanting redemption, right? That's what you fight for – to atone for your past?"

Angel frowned muzzily. "That's the question?"

"No. But still – that right? That's why you fight?"

He blinked, shrugged with the shoulder that wasn't burning in mystically inflicted agony. "Yeah, that's right…" It was more complicated than that, it always was. But then, Angel _really_ wasn't in the mood for extraneous exposition right now.

Xander nodded again, satisfied. Leaned in further. Almost whispered:

"If you could make Buffy happy… would you give up that fight?"

—ox-oxo-xo—

The sequence of events that led to this moment, in retrospect, was actually quite straightforward – very much a 'duh' moment from the viewpoint of one Alexander Substitute-Less-Embarrassing-Middle-Name-Here Harris. It was considerably less clear to the others due to their dearth of knowledge concerning certain events; as such, given that Angel didn't appear to be dying that very minute, Xander went with some impatience over his series of encounters with Jack O'Toole and his gang of boom-happy zombies some months past.

As one might again expect, the refrain rang out: "Why didn't you tell us?"

The response?

"Pfft, _so_ not the point here."

(What, you were expecting him to waste time with a list of clearly delineated reasons with an added serving of ill-timed angst? …Well, normally you'd be right, but _this_ time there's a plan involved.)

"Anyway…" Gobsmacked at such a blatant dodge of the question, the others unwittingly allowed him to move on with glee. "Afterwards, I was thinking to myself, hey! Could _we_ get away with being zombies for a little while if we had to? Y'know, if they're intelligent and sane and all, and very much _not_ of the brainmunching voodoo-mask or the psycho Franken-Epps' monster varieties? 'Cause dying wouldn't be so much of a problem if you could just be up and about again in a day or two."

Looking round at the distinctly queasy faces of his compatriots, he shrugged pragmatically. "Hey, _I_ liked it. But after running through Giles's books, it turns out most zombies are soulless – there's ways to make 'em with souls, but they're dangerous or expensive or, well, just impractical. So, pretty much useless, and a lot of what I read ended up being shoved in the back of my head, hoping I'd never need to think about it again. Ever."

Willow glared at him, offended at his cavalier dismissal of the sacred, sacred knowledge.

Xander glared back. "Did you know there's a way to make a vampire drinkable by other vamps? Force a little blood from a certain type of demon into them, and a vamp nest has itself one very sorry little slurpee to take the odd nibble on when there's nothing in the way of blood to spare. Or take away its pain tolerance, just so's to break them properly if they didn't get it right the first time…" He swallowed hard. "I got how vampires were evil, but – well, turns out imagination's the limit there. And I didn't want my imagination going there, I really didn't…"

His audience considered this. Xander used the opportunity to produce a small opaque flask and a penknife from his rucksack.

"…Personally, I just think it's a good thing only necromancers are up with the knowing about that stuff – helps that the demons that bleed the secret ingredient would rather not share, too." He stabbed the penknife's blade through the thin cork sealing the flask, prying it free with a violent wiggle-and-twist. Angel stared suspiciously at the chunky glass container as Xander held it out for him to take. The stuff looked like fluorescent green slime, from the viscous coating on the knife.

"'Killer of the Dead', so called 'cause it kills _vampires_. There's risks here, big ones, and this stuff," he jiggled the bottle, "_will_ kill you after a while unless you do something about it later. But right now? It's this – or have Buffy keep on risking her life trying to feed herself to you."

At this, the vampire began to hesitantly reach for the flask – not so much to actually drink it, it wasn't like he was anywhere near taking such a risk on so little information, as instead to keep it out of Buffy's reach should she decide to take it out of the equation altogether and leave the one option he could not countenance as the only one left to take.

Not that Xander cared for his hesitation. The garishly painted knifeblade darted out and stabbed into Angel's outstretched hand with a meaty _thunk_. One instant of stunned silence ensued.

An explosion of action did not follow, although everyone did suddenly feel as though one should have resulted. In the meantime the silence continued, until Angel flinched and doubled over.

A confused handful of moments followed, at the end of which the shivering brunet was laid out on his covers, Willow and Oz were leaning over him with the bowl of water and checking for temperature, the knife (now painted in crimson streaks to one inch down from the tip) had been thrown in the corner, and Buffy had Xander by the throat.

"What did you do?" she growled. He didn't try to speak, only raised one hand in a 'wait' gesture. Her grip ratcheted tighter, only to loosen as she realised that he just wasn't going to answer her yet.

It took maybe twenty seconds for the convulsions to pass, leaving Angel gasping and panting for air. Xander's hand clenched to point a finger at the trio as he rasped, "Willow, you're gonna have to check soon to see if he's still Soulboy. Should still be there, but best to be sure…"

Buffy, who had been about to turn round to look more closely at Angel, turned back and tightened her grip on his neck once more. "What did you do!" she repeated.

(Grumpy much? Not like her lover was dying or anything, after all…)

To which Xander hoarsely replied with a lopsided grin, "Made him the thing that vampires drink from."

"What's that supposed to mean—"

"Dude," Oz's quiet voice interrupted, "I'm pretty sure you're not meant to have a pulse…"

—ox-oxo-xo—

Rupert could not be said to be completely happy at the latest turn of events, but it was clearly past time for anything to be done to change it. Recriminations on the other hand, the ex-Watcher decided judiciously, there was likely enough time to indulge in for a short while – at least until materials could be gathered to perform the requisite spell to ensure that the ex-vampire Angel still possessed his soul. Best not need to go over what he had unearthed more than once for absent colleagues, after all.

(Well. Consider the fact that he'd just braved the staffroom's stash of refreshments and imbibed a cup of truly horrible coffee, and he might privately admit that he was feeling more than a little peevish as it was. Why pass up a relatively harmless chance to vent one's spleen?)

The boy's response was calm, rational, bordering on bloody smug. "Yeah, I know there were risks – I wouldn't have gone for all this otherwise. But Angel was dying anyway, and it was either try it out or probably lose Buffy when she fed herself to him. It's not like we could've stopped her…"

Rupert had no choice but to admit the boy's points were valid. "So, what substance was this precisely?" he asked, eyeing the open flask curiously as it sat innocuously on the library table.

"Blood of a…Mohra demon I think it was called," Xander answered, ambling over to one of the stacks and checking the titles. "Regenerates dead flesh. High-end ingredient for necromancers who like their dead bodies all not-rotten. Got the address for Jack's 'grandpappy' at the same time Will and Oz were looking for Faith's place. Spent the rest of the road trip fund for that little bottle of green goop…"

Xander sighed. Was it really worth it, when it was all over and done with?

_Ehh,_ he eventually decided,_ it's not like I'll be round to head out on that road trip afterwards, most like…_

Strangely enough, he felt a little better once he realised that. Finding the relevant book, he handed it to the librarian with a wry smile.

"Ah yes, it's been a-almost a decade since I perused this particular volume. Which page was it again?" Xander took the book from him for long enough to find where the substance was mentioned. "I-In the meantime, there have been some vital developments regarding the nature of the Mayor's Ascension. Once the ritual to determine the presence of Angel's soul has been performed, we should move directly to more important matters…"

* * *

_Next: Graduation…_


	2. Part II

**Disclaimer:** Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc., not me.

**Rating: T** (moderate language)

**Number:** 2/3 (at least, maybe up to 7)

**Summary:** It was not until discussions began regarding what Angel was to do with his new humanity that Giles began to realise the depths to which Xander would pay the cost for his moment of altruism.  
Note: a small amount of what might be considered Buffy-bashing. Not much, though.

**Pairings:** Buffy/Angel (Willow/Oz)

**Feedback:** very much appreciated!

* * *

**Tangent Stage Left: Graduating Divergence, Part II**

—**ox-oxo-xo—**

The truly _sucky_ thing about it all, Xander decided a day and a half later as he weaved through the largely relieved mass of newly graduated students towards Buffy and the others, was that he had seen this coming. Not his death, unless you wanted to go with the 'highschool = end of an era' death-logic. No, what he had seen—

"_I can't play kid games any more. This is how she wants it."_

"_I just don't want to lose you."_

"_I won't get hurt."_

"_That's not what I mean."_

"_Just get me an address."_

—was that he was _wrong_, the moment he'd opened his mouth and emitted one last futile plea to stay the toppling of Buffy Anne Summers from the pedestal he still hadn't, at the time, got around to properly deconstructing.

He'd already lost her, a long time ago – assuming she was ever 'his' to lose in the first place. It turned out after some quick checking that Buffy hadn't _quite_ killed Faith, but the sentiment had been there well enough at the time, and had been followed by her aborted attempt to force Angel to feed upon her. Add that to her emotional paralysis over the months of Angelus' rampage last year, and Buffy had more or less the full trifecta – to kill, to die and to let die. The fact that all this had been for Angel in some way, shape or form, honestly didn't really come into it any more – the problem was that the self-justification that Xander had used for his continued presence, despite intermittent protest from the others and more-than-occasional uselessness on his own part for anything beyond snack runs, had failed to measure up to reality.

Socially, Willow was a better friend than he was, particularly for a teenage girl who had never had to learn how to actually _be friends_ with boys – at least, not without reclassifying them as honorary girls, or such other standard exceptions as 'the best friend's boyfriend' Oz. And as much as he hated to admit it even to himself, when he looked at their friendship closely, it didn't in all honesty seem so great; even he had to admit his distaste for being considered 'one of the girls' was far from the only problem, and not nearly all of them were solely her fault.

Morally… now _that_ hurt. Xander had always taken a certain amount of pride in being able to say the tough things that had to be said. But since when had it ever mattered? Since when had he had any more luck than, say, Giles when it came to getting her to do the right thing?

And as for being the 'normal one', the walking, talking example of what it was that Buffy and the others were fighting to protect? Oh please, like he'd _ever_ agreed with that line of reasoning, at least insofar as it applied to _him_. His school life had been full of 'normal' people, who had seen the Sunnyhell brand of weirdness time and time again – and did _nothing_. If that was normality, then they could cram it where the sun didn't shine.

He stopped for a moment, looked up at the stubbornly sunless afternoon sky. _All right, where the sun isn't _meant_ to shine._

No. Xander had known – should they all survive, anyway – that embarking on the plan as he had would most likely guarantee the end of any meaningful place for him among the Slayerettes. He could only hope Angel would do a better job in his place…

That was worth a giggle, at least. It would be interesting to see how long it took before the ex-vampire was forced to go the fray-adjacent route. He wondered if Angel would accept that role in the Scooby dynamic any better than he had. Already there seemed to be problems on the horizon; shortly before the beginning of the ceremony, the newly human-strength Angel had complained about his decidedly peripheral role in Buffy's battle-plan – and Xander had enjoyed playing the logic card to the hilt:

"_Hey, Liveboy _(unimaginative, but hey! he was _tired…_)_ – remember the part where I asked if you'd be willing to give up your atonement to make Buffy happy? The atonement where you fight the evil to earn the redemption? 'Cause, this is kinda what I meant when I said you couldn't do it any more…_"

_'Ah well – at least the poor sidelined sucker can console himself with the Buffy-lovin','_ he thought, sidestepping a tightly packed gaggle of airheads-formerly-known-as-Cordettes and homing in on Giles' position as he came into view.

And, for all that it annoyed him that Buffy had suddenly become more than willing to adopt some of the weapons that he'd been recommending for ages now there wasn't a friendly neighbourhood vampire to catch the friendly fire (only, not so much _fire_ as _holy water_ in projectile form), the results of their widespread use during the Graduation Day Battle of '99 had been spectacular – even better, he liked to think, than things might have gone if Angel had been fighting in all his formerly-demonic strength. Instead, the ex-vampire had carefully positioned his forces behind the Mayor's vampiric horde and lobbed water balloons at them from behind the passable security of a big ol' wooden shield mounted on a frame and trolley wheels with a bunch of crosses nailed onto its face. The construction of a number of similar, smaller cross-laden shields for those who didn't still have sore shoulders, courtesy of Xander's suggestion, several filched pallets and a few hours after school yesterday with the rest of the outgoing shop class, had been Angel's main contribution to the battle preparations – and apart from a few bruises and a knock to the head which he could hear Wesley's grating tenor bitching about off to the right, the 'hammer' part of the hammer-and-anvil play they'd caught the invading force between had to all appearances got away with negligible casualties.

There were casualties, of that he was certain. Snyder and a couple of students to the Mayor, a few more to the vampires. But still… it could have been worse. Students had died under his command, but… well, dear god he hoped he'd done well enough to let him sleep tonight…

Xander buried his bout of melancholy and traded the traditional round of post-fight quippage with the others, secure in the knowledge that there would be time for brooding later when he was alone. As the group of seven meandered away to celebrate and/or fall over, he failed to notice Giles' thoughtful stare in his direction.

—ox-oxo-xo—

Rupert Giles had long been aware that his mandated, single-minded focus on the blonde Slayer carried its fair share of detractions; over the years, there had arisen numerous instances during which the risks inherent to that focus had borne fruit with disastrous results – Angelus, Jenny, Faith and a great many extraneous blows to the head being but the most eye-catching examples. And as the future would go to show, these would prove to be but milestones along a litany of such errors. In the years ahead, however, he could at least console himself with the fact that when it truly counted, the case of Alexander Harris did not number among them.

It began, as the group (of eight now, as Joyce had returned to Sunnydale with the danger's passing) sat sprawled on various items of furniture around the Summers' living room, and chatted amongst themselves with a range of victuals and non-alcoholic libations to hand. The general vector of conversation, having begun with a debrief for Joyce's benefit regarding Graduation and Angel's sudden return to the human race, had drifted round to what each of them would do over their summer. For three of those present, of course, the post-highschool vacation period would end with the assumption of college studies. Xander had mentioned a 'road trip' earlier, beyond which his plans were to find a job of unstated type. Cordelia had chosen to forsake avenues of tertiary education in favour of seeking an acting career in Los Angeles, though she was somewhat tightlipped over other aspects; she had spoken of moving once she had secured a place of residence, which would likely be accomplished in the next week or so. Joyce would of course continue her work in the gallery over the summer. He himself, with his sizable pool of funds courtesy of the Council's severance package (along with a further redundancy payout to be expected due to the loss of the school and thus his job), quite liked the sound of enjoying a stint of being 'a gentleman of leisure', as Joyce had jokingly put it; over the long term he would of course need to secure further employment, but conceded that he would have a fair while to decide in which direction he wished to pursue his own career.

There was a major question mark, as one might expect, over what Angel would do with his new life. After all, he had been dead for centuries – what did he have in the way of identity, not to mention vocational prospects? Willow promised to do everything she could with the generation of a new identity before she left to pursue her own summer itinerary, and indeed appeared to look upon it as a challenge to her hacking skills; Rupert found himself uncertain as to whether or not to disapprove, given that at least her illegalities in the realm of information technology were far less likely to cost her soul or her sanity than the magics she had increasingly devoted her time to over the past year. Willow's assurances that creating the requisite records could extend to giving him a suitable occupation had led to the current topic.

"A history tutor? Well, given my daughter's marks in it…" Joyce considered, eyeing Angel with a complex if understated mix of emotions – largely scepticism at the moment, given her remark.

"Maybe Lit?" Xander smirked. "You've read enough…"

Interestingly, Rupert noted, Angel appeared to give this serious consideration. Rupert frowned suddenly, sorting through his recent memory. _What was it…?_

"…P.I.?"

The others perked up at the apparent non-sequitur, looking at Oz. The ex-librarian listened, half his mind occupied elsewhere.

"You still wanna help, right? You look old enough, you can ask questions. Don't know how well it pays, but…" Oz shrugged.

Willow nodded and made a note of it. "It's worth a thought." Rupert silently concurred. Should such an vocational choice pan out, it would make more than one aspect of their collective lives easier. This would especially be the case should it pay enough to support additional employees, in which case— _Wait a moment…_

"What of yourself, Xander?"

"Huh?" The boy straightened in his chair. "Whatcha mean, G-man?"

Rupert reflexively suppressed a wince at the terrible nickname, refusing to be sidetracked into letting slip the raft of facts he'd just assembled. "You mentioned yesterday morning that you had spent the remainder of your holiday funds in order to purchase that, that Mohra demon blood. So how, exactly, were you planning to pay for your travels?"

It was something of a low blow, Rupert Giles had to concede as the boy scrabbled for an answer that would satisfy the others, who were suddenly paying close attention. Xander was clearly exhausted after the frenetic events of the past few days, running on fumes and caffeine-laden sugar as much as his compatriots.

"Uhh, get as far as a full tank of gas'll take me, I guess. Then, get a job for a bit?"

For a moment, it looked as though the others might accept this. Then…

"No. That's not good enough, Xander." Bizarrely, albeit perhaps less so under the current circumstance, it was Angel who rebelled. "I owe you too much for that."

"What, you think I did it for a handout?" Xander snarked, though it looked more like the snarl of a cornered animal than he was probably aiming for. "You got your own life ahead of you, Pinocchio. I don't need anything from you."

"_No._ I want to help. And I think we can," Angel told him, refusing to rise to the bait. "Willow, do you think you can get into the Mayor's systems again? He's not exactly going to miss some money…"

"I dunno, the accountants might notice, what with him having just died and all, but – ooh! What about his properties? Maybe his vampire employees lived on them! A-and lots of them are all dead-ed 'coz we killed them all just today, so…"

Rupert Giles nodded and sat back, satisfied with the results, as Xander shrunk further into his chair with embarrassment and the others debated and planned regardless of his suffering.

He felt for the boy, he really did, albeit with the objectivity a few decades' distance could provide. They were similar, after all, in not wishing to follow in their fathers' footsteps at their ages. There were a couple of important differences, however; on the one hand, Xander's father was certainly not on a wise path to follow in any case. On the other hand, Xander had far fewer options than the boy who would be Ripper had at his perusal. Ripper had followed his friends – Xander, it was plain to see, had not even their future to claim. And, Rupert had quickly surmised once he had actually _thought_ about it, Xander was well aware of this – and had chosen to fade away without his friends noticing and feeling guilt over what their collective lifestyle had done to contribute to his long-term dilemma, his 'road trip' merely the vehicle for removing himself from the picture.

That his friends wanted him out of harm's way was a given. It had taken the current chain of circumstance for them all to realise, at least on some subconscious level, that to attempt such a thing without even their thanks for all he had done for them (Rupert made a mental note to enquire at some point what _else_ the boy had done for them without anyone ever finding out)… That, that would be the most grievous possible disservice to him.

* * *

_Next: Fallout…_


	3. Part III

**Disclaimer:** Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc., not me.

**Rating: T** (moderate language)

**Number:** 3/3 (for now; see postscript)

**Summary:** The Mayor's aborted Ascension and Angel's abrupt return to humanity were like stones thrown into a pond. Trick was, it was always easier to gauge the weight of the stone than the size of the pond, particularly when it was more like a marsh…  
(While I'm here, much thanks to **ronin504**, **Rc1212**, 'Guest' and **Starway Man** for their reviews, and to all of you who've read and enjoyed thus far.)

**Pairings:** Buffy/Angel (Willow/Oz)

**Feedback:** very much appreciated!

* * *

**Tangent Stage Left: Graduating Divergence, Part III**

—**ox-oxo-xo—**

News of the events surrounding Mayor Richard Wilkin's abortive attempt at Ascension became known and were duly investigated in wider circles, as time and causality marched on. A wide variety of persons, corporations and entities took note, and took stock…

…and, for the most part, collectively shrugged and got on with business.

—ox-oxo-xo—

Holland Manners sighed over the loss of Mayor Wilkin's business – then sighed again with relief when the cost-benefit estimates of the damage control had he succeeded crossed the lawyer's desk. He made a note of Angel's provisional elimination as the souled vampire of the firm's various recorded prophecies, and began sorting through his briefing notes on the promising number of military R&D corporations angling for contracts out of the nascent D.R.I. operation in Sunnydale, the schedule for which had become a great deal smoother following the removal of Wilkin's recalcitrance regarding the matter. Several firms in particular were likely to be requesting the services of Wolfram & Hart's Special Projects division shortly, most of which were notably reliable. And the other, he was happy to read, was ripe for new management.

Yes sirree, it was a nice day to be him. Holland dialled out for lunch, never knowing just how close he'd come to being massacred by one of his clients just a couple years down the track. Of course, there remained a good chance that he'd be massacred by another one of his clients eventually, but then that's why they got paid the big money…

—ox-oxo-xo—

Cyvus Vail, being a great deal more knowledgeable than Manners by dint of both position and powers, took a fair amount of interest in Angel's change in status. Indeed he even briefly contemplated enacting a reality shift to alter events – but quickly decided to let sleeping dogs lie. While his old enemy Sahjhan could only be killed through a prophecy that had been postponed indefinitely, he was confident the time-shifting demon could only become corporeal (and thus in a position to give _him_ further trouble) as part of the same prophecy.

Meanwhile, Sahjhan was more than a little annoyed over this turn of events, but who was he to complain overmuch about the prophecy forecasting his death being shelved until further notice? All the more time to work out something else. And it wasn't like Holtz was getting any older, so releasing him might be worth a chuckle if he ever got truly bored…

—ox-oxo-xo—

The Powers tut-tutted for a while over the loss of their vampiric champion, debating their own changes to adjust the Balance. In the end they held off judgement for the most part, to see how matters turned out elsewhere.

So it was that some days after Sunnydale High School's explosive demise, amid the walls of a certain mansion, Buffy and Angel threw on dressing gowns and stumbled out of the bedroom to answer the front door, only to be stopped by a whistle from a figure leaning on a wall to the side of the lobby.

"Hey, you're kinda dressed," the whistler remarked. "Pleasant surprise there, rat-breath."

"Whistler!" the pair exclaimed/growled.

"Hey, hey!" Whistler said, raising his hands placatingly. "No need to get your panties in a twist, people! I'm just here to deliver a message…"

Buffy lowered her fists and stopped her advance, but couldn't help but glare at the balance demon. And much like nearly a week ago, in the very bedroom they'd just left in fact, her anger was scrambling to mask her sudden, heartstopping terror.

Three years as the Slayer. Three years, in which she'd already died once, and was almost certainly slated to die again in the near-to-mid future. Three years, in which the friends she'd made (let alone _kept_) could just about be counted on one hand – and ditto for boyfriend prospects, of which the best of the lot had embarked on a months-long murdering spree from the morning after she'd given him her virginity to the moment she'd literally plunged him into hell. Three years, in which she'd been thrown in the loony bin, watched her parents' divorce, got kicked out of home and spent two months slumming in L.A., nearly killed someone, and been charged with someone else's murder just to top it all off.

Yesterday, after the frantic pace of Graduation and its intrusions into her night life, after all the explosions both literal and metaphorical had finished and the dust settled, after the cleanup and looting and paperwork and catching up on life and sleep was done with and it all boiled down to her and him alone in the mansion… Yesterday had been the single best day of Buffy Summers' life. But three years, in which her destiny had constantly come up with new and exciting ways to screw her over, had left their mark.

Mix the anger and the terror together, and her thoughts at that moment could best be put:

_Don't. You. DARE…!_

And then Whistler opened his mouth and all the tension left the room like air let out of a balloon…albeit in a slightly less squeaky manner, with a Brooklyn accent tossed in for flavour. "Just came to tell you, Angel – job done! Not exactly the way we all saw it happening, but good enough. Just hang in there, don't screw up too badly, and you can consider yourself off the hook."

Buffy slumped with relief, spinning into Angel's arms and pressing her face to his chest. The solid warmth of his embrace, the tang of his sweat, the thumping of his heart, the breath shifting her hair and the slight wheezing sound that told her she was hugging him back just a _little_ too hard, all of it seeped back in to remind her that sometimes, just sometimes, three of even the most painful years was nothing but three years. She barely even noticed the steps retreating, or the front door opening.

"And we're good," Whistler called back in farewell. Angel nodded peacefully as the balance demon closed the door and legged it while the going was good.

Some time passed. Buffy sniffled a little, and straightened. "…Shower."

Angel's eyes lit. "Breakfast!"

They smiled at each other. "Bed."

Buffy and Angel ambled away, their plans set for the morning. Let the future take care of itself when it happened.

—ox-oxo-xo—

In 'her' own distant realm, as she observed her sometimes-pawn leaving Angel's mansion, the exiled entity that would have been Jasmine decided to limit her immediate reaction to redeploying Skip elsewhere. After all, she was just as accustomed as the Powers That Be to the concept of taking the broader view; also, her involvement in matters thus far had gone unnoticed (or at least uncommented, one could never _quite_ be certain) despite the Harris boy's unwitting derailment of her latest plan, which in itself was not her first nor would be her last in her attempts to procure herself a vessel, in this world or in others. And it wasn't as if her current plan was _completely_ doomed; the manipulation of certain circumstances might yet maximise her chances if certain other matters still fell her way.

It should also be kept in mind that 'Jasmine' was largely considered one of the more benevolent forces, at least by those she wasn't throwing under the bus for the overall good. The main difference between her and the Powers that had exiled her was simply that she sought to rule directly. Even if her plans had suffered a setback, there was no reason not to keep her hand in, nor one for the Powers to factor in said hand. So one Allen Francis Doyle still woke up cursing and with a pounding migraine from another vision.

It was worth noting, however, that Skip's resulting absence from a certain buck's party that same night resulted in a certain nameless researcher for the Scourge never hearing about a certain World War II documentary, and thus missing out on an idea he'd have otherwise had about a 'Final Solution' that could (as he'd have put it to his superiors) 'kill humans but leave buildings standing'.

And so go the mechanics of Balance.

—ox-oxo-xo—

Barring the odd long-term contingency manoeuvre of some few of their pawns-in-reserve, that was about as far as any of the Powers, in exile or otherwise, were willing to go for the moment. And the First Evil joined them in their 'wait and see' approach, still confident that ongoing circumstances might afford it an opportunity to change the game in its favour – and not caring overmuch if the _status quo_ didn't change, given that if anything the First was even more suited to the long game than the Powers or the Senior Partners.

A great many factors had contributed, and/or would contribute, to the latest sprawling nexus of events which might, depending on one's viewpoint, be called the 'End Times'. A great many persons, corporations, and entities had their own interpretations, or simply wanted to use the instability of the times to apply their own 'End Time' scenario while everyone else was swamped… and of course, a great many others simply wished to do as they would. The fall of Sunnydale's fief-lord was largely regarded as either an opportunity to expand their own horizons and goals, or just one more boulder in the avalanche. The 'fall' (albeit perhaps more in the Biblical sense) of one of Sunnydale's major champions was largely regarded in a similar light.

The thing to remember about 'End Times', was that the term only ever applied until said times were ended – not to mention the dangers inherent in classifying such an term by the equivalent of filling a checklist provided by a host of obfuscatory, quite often contradictory prophecies. The current cluster of circumstance was far from the first nexus of cataclysmic catalyst, however much the cosmic equivalent of authorial alliteration might lure all and sundry into getting carried away or simply lost in the moment. (Or the sentence.)

And this one…let's say, it _probably_ wouldn't be the last, either. It was something that the _truly_ knowledgeable players knew and accepted (or at least plotted to overthrow, after accepting it as the _current_ state of affairs). Sure, one of the flashier centrepoints had been removed from prominence – but to what extent it would _matter_ in the long run would only become truly apparent as causality took its own inexorable toll. To rush forward in false certainty was the province of mortals, those who wouldn't have to put up with the mess afterwards.

—ox-oxo-xo—

Not that any of this mattered to Xander Harris, in a surprisingly good mood from the send-off party the previous night, putting the pedal to the metal on his way out of Sunnyhell a week after graduating high school with nearly two thousand dollars in his wallet and an engine that might actually get him out of the state before it fell out of the car.

His future might still be screwed – but screw it, at least he was still getting his goddamned road trip!

* * *

**A/N:** And so ends the pivotal divergence – Angel 'in', Xander out. As it stands, it's fairly likely that I'll be adding several further chapters, but these will cover the longer view and skim over fair-sized chunks of time. So for the moment, I'll be tagging this as 'complete'. (Not to worry **Starway Man**, I do indeed have places to take this - it's just that I want to brush up a little on all the players and their timing before I rush into it.)

Primarily though, dear fan-fiction reader/writer, this premise is now _your_ baby to play with. Where does Xander go, and does he ever come back? How do Willow and Buffy deal with his absence, assuming they even noticed? How does Angel fit into his new role? What happens if/when Spike is thrown in the mix, and what does Drusilla do about it? Does Cordelia get her own TV show? Does Doyle get his brain eaten? Does Wesley ever actually find a rogue demon to hunt? Hell, does 'Jasmine' get born on Pylea and named Feigenbaum in memory of her mother? And do crossovers result from all this?

The idea of writing something that would make readers go off on their own tangents was a big motivator behind knocking up this fanfic. So I'll be looking forward to what you all can make of it – feel free to point me in the direction of any results you'd like to demonstrate. (Though, I'll probably ignore non-canon slash. Go ahead and do it if you want to, it seems a lot of the people who've faved and/or followed this fic like that sort of thing, and it's not like the platform hasn't been provided – I'm just saying it's not _my_ thing.) Needless to say, I'd highly appreciate this fic being referenced if/when you post your own divergences.

So…the challenge is called. Do you wanna play?


End file.
